The complexity and implications of what happened in that 1 day will take years to think through- I am still in something like a state of shock.
This initial statement of account , still close to the event, a first ‘post’ post, has several items in its ledger. The first is to say that I don’t know which ‘event’ I am really thinking about, the journey from London to Lithuania to Minsk to Vasilichki, to the pond in the middle of Vasilichki, to the 16th Century church at the end of the long North South road which runs through the village, the finding of the burial/massacre site, the sighing trees, the brutal, disgusting, indecent and utterly shocking events in 1942, the sense of how the village might have existed before 1942, the fact that my Grandmother, an educated woman who studied in Warsaw, left the village in 1918 though many of her family were still there, and her youngest sister and a brother remained until the end.
The second is to say that the relief of finding a connection (a word that I felt could be too easily misunderstood) is best described as the relief of finding a long hidden and very deep wound which, by finally being located, allows an imagination of what the healthy tissue might have been like prior to the wound, and being able to finally imagine how some of the pieces of this giant intergenerational puzzle might be moved to create a whole image. Even glimpsing that possibility is an extraordinary liberation, and includes the history of the Jews in Belarus , the educated relationship with Christianity, the participation in Weimar Berlin and Enlightenment Germany, the place of the UK in all this, and impossibly much more. I am very uncertain of the details of how a re-integration takes place, or what it leads to, how much a sense of guilt, self-censorship or inadequacy makes a response impossible.
Oh, dear reader, I don’t know if I’m asking you to be complicit in an act of secondary barbarism through reading this: offering a salacious, Munchhausen by proxy access to something which no decent person would ever mention. But that having been said, my strongest feeling is the reverse. That it takes a particular effort to overcome self censorship or simply forgetfulness or the forgetfulness imposed by others, or even worse, active denial. And I find it very difficult to do this for myself let alone for anyone else, and so this is a struggle against the odds
The third thing is that, even without knowing how to proceed, something has already happened. Already, in the structure of the visit, in its timing, rhythm and the series of co-incidences and confrontations it is offering clues about how one might proceed.
So, in this first, still raw processing of the experience, I wanted to mention four of these moments, in the sequence in which they occurred. The fact that its not a singular event, or an epicentre, feels restorative in some way, even though the fourth event in this list is undeniably an absolutely essential part.
First, in Vilnius, on the way to Minsk in Belarus, we visited the Choral Synagogue. It was Saturday and the building was closed, but we were let in and we were able to see the congregation (probably not the right word) eating together, women on one side and men on the other. Delicious looking schnitzel and large bottles of Vodka. I was able to speak to the Rabbi and the Cantor, both called Shmuel, and talk about the project, and my interest in Cantillation. The Cantor wanted me to be clearer about what I was asking him, and I said that I couldnt be, but that I wanted to know more about the relationship between the text and the singing. He told me it was very important, and also that he had learned about it from his father who was also a Cantor, and he also sang some brief examples. I would like to have stayed and joined in the lunch, but the visit had been so unexpected, and I felt rather like an imposter, so we left.
The second moment was when we arrived in the centre of Vasilichki, having driven for 3 hours from Minsk, (an extraordinary city that my son described as a cross between Los Angeles and North Korea) . The road had gone through non-stop and immense fields and forests, vast flat plains, though the area around Vasiliski had some very slight hills which changed the view. The village itself had an initially rather shocking vista, with an industrial scale collective farming unit with petrol station built in, and the village pond was surrounded by very new and utilitarian housing. It was also full of ravens, a big swarm of these black cawing animals were waiting on the patch of grass where we parked the car. This is the first recording, ( I will add the link to it here in the next few days ) .
I had printed a very basic map of the village from Google, and we tried to come up with a route or a way of walking round the place. This walk, and the directions that we took, felt difficult to decide, – I wanted to find somewhere to sit and be quiet, but where? Looking North up the central road one could see the forests, which are actually all around. It seemed inviting and slightly up hill, so perhaps for that reason we came up with a route which began by going South, then we would circle to the East, then return to the centre and then finally go North.
Most of the buildings on the road are quite small, some like wooden shacks, and its hard to know how old they are. Some are in a state of disrepair. (If you have read the childrens book “Ant and Bee” and remember Kind Dog’s kennel before he was given a new one, that’s it) . I saw a building with a picture of a beautiful woman combing locks of long black hair, and thought it was a hairdressing salon, and I went in thinking I might have a haircut. In fact it was a funeral parlour, and there were rows of coffins stacked against the wall. I took a picture of my cousin Marion standing next to one. The proprietress was very smiling and friendly.
At the Southern end of the village is, surprisingly, a large 16th century church. It was Sunday, and we went inside. A woman was singing, liturgical chanting, with an extraordinarily clear and beautiful voice. (You can hear the recording here, when I have worked out how to create the link). Coming out, I said to my Cousin, how strange to have come all the way to Vasilichki thinking about Cantillation, and then to hear something like this from the Catholic tradition! She said, “its the same thing”, and I was mortified, saying no, it isn’t, its different??? But, on reflection, this is of course quite a profound point. I dont yet know the details of sameness or difference, but the negotiation between the Catholic (and orthodox Christian) culture and the Jewish culture went on successfully in this small village for many generations, and contributed to its extraordinary richness.
We continued our circle round to the East and then back to the centre of the village, having seen the large Christian graveyard on the South-Eastern edge, and the nearby milking sheds. We were hungry and rather tired, and it was a hot and humid day. We bought some blueberries from the shop, and sat eating them for a while. I was worried that we would soon be leaving, and didnt know how or on what terms this would happen. The idea that this was it, that the whole journey had reached its conclusion was unsettling and dispiriting. We decided to drive out along the road to the north, and if we found somewhere calm to sit then we would stop and stay there a while. At the point where the road forks, one side going straight ahead to the forest and the other turning back into the village, there was an unusual group of trees, not like the rest of the surrounding, and possibly a place to stop.
On arriving in the grove of trees I had the feeling that the world had lost its usual sense of weight and gravity, affecting not only my stomach but also the relation between the trees, the ground and the sky. The ground does not feel solid, it is covered by pockmarks and ripples, as if it is unable to settle down. But the trees, whose trunks have been painted white to a height of about 4 feet, are full of leaves and are in constant movement. The thousands of leaves make a sound as they are blown by the wind which is immensely soothing, as if the silent quaking of the ground is being allowed to dissipate in those long breaths of shimmering sound, creating some kind of condensation between the ground and the sky at tree height, and allowing my own emotion to find some kind of elasticity.
Amongst the white painted trees is one silver birch. I had brought, as a kind of offering for my Grandmother’ sister, a small twig of a silver birch from our garden in Brighton which I left at the memorial stone that had been put up among the trees. And in exchange I took a twig from the silver birch in the grove to bring home.
Scored Out 